


Na Hoa Mau Loa

by McDannoMauLoa



Series: McDanno: A Complete History [7]
Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Family Secrets, Flashbacks, Fluff, Historical, M/M, Weddings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-19
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-12 12:05:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/490766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McDannoMauLoa/pseuds/McDannoMauLoa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The week leading up to Steve and Danny's wedding in several vignettes with some historical tales of Steve and Danny's extended family interspersed throughout.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. June 9

**Author's Note:**

> Title Translation: Partners Forever
> 
> For those of you who hate WIP, I've completely encapsulated each chapter conflict (if one exists) to be resolved by the end of it; so feel free to read each chapter as though I've posted separate works.

In Tahiti, where it is understood the ancestors of those who crossed the ocean to Hawai’i originated on their journey, there is a word that describes the peculiar sense of fatigue and ennui that often affects those who inhabit tropical isles. The Tahitian word, _fiu_ , has an exact translation to neither English nor Hawaiian, but like many words in the Hawaiian language (which is mainly derived from Tahitian) it has multiple nuanced uses that take some time to fully grasp, yet add deep richness to the language and culture of the people who use it.

Danny was definitely _fiu_ , Steve thought, as he watched his partner collapse into the lounge chair next to him, sweating beer in hand. His face, lit by the full moon inching its way above Moloka’i in the eastern sky, betrayed neither fatigue nor angst, neither exasperation nor satisfaction. Merely a blank slate devoid of thought or consideration, blue eyes turned ebony pools in the darkness that still glinted with the reflection of the moonlight, itself reflected off the calm waters of the Pacific. Perhaps there was the slightest hint of strain taking residence in the soft skin surrounding those sparkling eyes, but aside from that tiny hint that Steve wasn’t even sure he could see, there was nothing but _fiu._

Danny laid flat against the back of the chair, took a tentative swig of his beer, swallowed, licked his lips and looked over at Steve. _Fiu_ was almost entrancing when he encountered it, and instead of breaking the silence he merely nodded, and smiled, sipped his own beer, and returned to tracking the moon’s reflection as the smell of the fish he was grilling washed down from the lanai.

True to form, Danny snapped out of his trance as soon as the smell of food reached him.

“Whatcha cookin’?”

“Opakapaka.” Steve smiled to himself, knowing Danny would make a face, and Danny didn’t disappoint him. “And a side of ribs for you, Danno.” He laughed.

“Mo’ b-“ Danny caught himself.

Steve almost leaped out of the chair. “I’m sorry, what was that?” His smile broadened as he cupped a hand behind one ear. “Did my Jersey boy almost say ‘Mo’ bettah’? Could Danno be getting assimilated?”

Danny smiled, defeated, leaned his head back against his own chair and took another swig of his beer. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” he said, with his eyes closed. Even with them closed, Steve could detect a sparkle in them, and he knew Danny’s lips were pursed because he was stifling a smile.

A sense of urgency poured over Steve as he knew it had been a few minutes, and although everything on the grill was cooking on low it was about time to go check, but he savored a few seconds in the chair next to Danny as he studied his moonlight framed profile. Familiar territory this, he still studied it as though he were a first year geography student struggling to remember major landmarks. From the ears that were a favorite of his to softly nibble, he followed the proportioned curve of the jawbone down to where it settled into the perfect square of a chin that reminded Steve of hospital cornered sheets on a mattress – symmetrical, precise, yet not quite immaculate thanks to the generous several days stubble growth to which a tiny, distinguished hint of grey had begun to sneak in at the corners. He continued his journey up the cliff face of his chin, over his thin lips that he knew to be expressive and versatile, with amazing utility that almost made Steve blush when he considered it. Past the lips, over his nose, just prominent enough to add some character, struggling not to get lost again in those sparkling eyes bookended by the thick folds of his crow’s feet that reminded Steve of a shar-pei, especially when Danny was squinting or giving him that wide smile where the corners of his lips cat-eared and he almost appeared to be deliberately baring his teeth.

How lucky he felt that this man loved him. How fortunate he considered himself that he chose to return to Steve’s house—nay— _their_ house, at the end of the day and spend every evening and night with him as well. It seemed as though Danny had awakened him to the idea of counting his blessings the moment he’d considered Danny the most important among them; while he’d always hoped to find fulfillment and satisfaction in his life, his Danny had more than exceeded those expectations and he frequently fought back feelings of disbelief that he was still fully entrapped in the inescapable grips of reality.

Remembering the grill, he stood from the chair, stared dumbly at the sea for a brief moment before draining his beer, and almost on impulse found himself behind Danny’s chair, tracing his hands down his shoulders, across broad biceps that tapered to small-featured forearms and even smaller hands that Steve cupped in his own much larger ones, and bent down to kiss the top of his head through the blond plumage that he managed to keep in perfect place in spite of the ever present trade winds.

Danny’s timing had been perfect, and the meal turned out very well. Danny seemed a bit more animated after a couple bites, although when he’d taken the ribs out of the freezer he’d forgotten that Danny was picky about them.  He used a fork to separate the meat from the bone before eating it. Steve had never seen anybody eat ribs in such a way, and he teased Danny mercilessly about it the first time he’d watched Danny eat them.

“I ran into Bill Casey today.” He eyed Danny, who was surgically deboning another rib.

Danny didn’t look up; he was busy slicing the meat into bite-sized pieces. “Bill Casey. Remind me who that is.”

“Classmate from Annapolis. I’m sure I told you about him.”

Danny paused for a moment while he finished chewing. “McGarrett, you have told me more stories involving sailors than could a Singapore Madame. They run together.”

Steve sighed. “He’s from Alaska; we might have been notorious at the Academy for streaking.”

Danny smiled. “I seem to remember something about the streaking. What did he have to say?”

Steve eyed Danny again, hoping he wouldn’t take umbrage with what he had to say.

“Well he’s on O’ahu for the weekend on his way to Australia and he mentioned he’s staying at Hale Koa and I said, ‘Nonsense why don’t you come stay with me and Danny through the weekend’ and we got to talking about things and how I’d always wanted to see Alaska and he mentioned he had a cabin on a lake and it’s the perfect time to go because he’s not going to be there and-“

“Wait.” Danny cut him off. “Just wait.  Are you telling me we’re going to Alaska?”

“Well, Danno, I, you know it’s been a while since we’ve gone anywhere and it sounds kind of interesting, and you’re always bitching about the island so I thought you might like to, ya know, take a trip.”

“To Alaska, Steven? _Alaska!_ You do realize we’re getting married next weekend, right? We’re not going to meet my parents at the airport, sort out the wedding cake business, keep your sister out of jail, and rewire Gracie’s cell phone so no boys can call her, ever, when we’re in _Alaska_! I can’t _believe_ you’d even _think_ to go somewhere last minute when we have all this work to do!”

Steve eyed his partner while he ranted. He was relieved that Danny was ranting. Steve chuckled to himself, amused at how easy it was to bait him.

“Why are you laughing?” Danny was gesturing and nearly shouting.

“I’m laughing because you’re so predictable.” Steve flashed him a broad smile. “I’m just kidding, Danno.”

Danny wiped his mouth and pushed his plate away. “You think that’s funny? You’d never make it in the frozen north without a seasoned cold-weather veteran, _i.e. me_ , to show you exactly how to keep warm away from the tropical climes of your natural habitat.”

Steve couldn’t help but keep smiling as he took Danny’s hand. “You do keep me pretty warm, Danno.”

“You.” Danny smiled, with a mocking look in his eye as he squeezed Steve’s hand in return, “Are a rabid, crazy, wild _animal_ , and we’re getting you fixed right after the wedding.”

“Maybe we’d both get better sleep then.” He nudged Danny’s knees apart with his own left knee underneath the table. “Just think about it – warm tropical nights in bed with you – lots of Sudoku, John Le Carre spy novels, reverent discourse on all matters moral.”

“Point taken.” Danny huffed.  “How about we wrap up the rest of that aquarium you didn’t eat and take care of these dishes, and then that bed thing you were talking about sounds pretty hot. We should go try that.” He was smiling up at Steve, wide-eyed with forced innocence.

“You got it baby.” Steve smiled.

***

_Honolulu: June 9, 2012_

“You’re thinning on top, Danno.” Steve mused, smiling as he felt Danny tense on top of him.

Danny, whose right cheek was perched on Steve’s left pec, didn’t bother to look up before answering without missing a beat.

“Don’t call me Danno in bed.  And I don’t care how cute you are, you leave the hair alone, okay?” He mumbled into Steve’s chest, half awake.

If Steve strained just a little, he could see the corners of Danny’s mouth turn up into a goofy grin, and the crow’s feet bookending his left eye tighten as he squinted with his smile. Steve pressed a long kiss right in the middle of that thinning mess of hair as he listened to the wind pick up against the palms in the yard before hitting side of the house increasing the speed and intensity of the tiny raindrops that had just begun to fall and creaking the windowpanes in their fittings.

“Cranky this morning.” Steve mused.

“Mm-mm.” Danny mumbled disagreement.

“Little coffee’ll fix that.” Steve said, moving to get out of bed, but Danny tightened his grip across Steve’s chest.

“Mm-mm.” He mumbled again.

“No coffee?”  Steve asked, settling back into the pillow.

“Mm-mm.”

“Pineapple?” Steve smiled.

“MM-mm.”  That one sounded irritated. Steve chuckled.

“Six mile run and three mile swim?”

“Mm-MM.” Danny was more emphatic on that one.  Steve couldn’t tell if it was because he particularly disliked the idea or because he had hoisted himself on top of Steve, settling his hips into that familiar position between Steve’s thighs, morning erection persistently spelling out his intentions.

“You sure you’re up for it, sleepyface?” Steve smiled at the top of Danny’s head as he patted his hands on Danny’s bottom, repositioning him just slightly for comfort (he had a tendency not to notice when his hipbones were grinding on Steve’s) and holding him in place.

Danny’s check was still flush atop Steve’s chest. “Mm-hmm.”

“You don’t seem up for it.”

Steve felt Danny’s facial muscles tighten into a smile on his chest as Danny exhaled, gave a few half-hearted thrusts with his hips, mumbling “Mm” on each, and smiled.

“Well that’s hot, babe.” Steve chuckled.

Danny gave a long exhale and drew in a long, deep breath while drawing his head up to face his partner.

“Morning baby.” Steve smiled into his eyes.

Danny scrunched his eyes closed and twisted his mouth to one side, reopened his eyes and blinked several times before his vision focused and he smiled back.

“Cock-a-hookah.” Danny tried, slowly.

Steve laughed out loud, so loud that Danny flinched from his morning breath.  He was still giggling at Danny’s irritated stare as he drew his hands up Danny’s back and wrapped them around his shoulders.

“Nice try, Danno.” Steve kissed him.

“Don’t call me Danno in bed.” Danny grumbled softly.

Steve shut him up with another kiss. “Say _Aloha kakahiaka_ correctly and I won’t, _Danny._ ”

Danny dropped his cheek back down to Steve’s chest and waited a good long moment before speaking again.

“Ass.”

Steve kissed the blond head again in response. He loved these lazy mornings with Danny, not really in a rush to get out of bed, although he knew they were both surreptitiously glancing over at the bedside clock. Danny’s family was flying in from New Jersey that afternoon and Steve had promised to pick up the key to their rental, a few houses down, from the caretaker that morning before he left to visit family on the Big Island for the weekend. Steve mentally considered the list of things he wanted to check out at the house before they arrived and he suddenly felt he had too little time.

“We gonna do this or what?”

Danny looked up at him with a twinkle in his eye. “What’s Hawaiian for ‘spread your legs?’”

***

_Honolulu: June 9, 1941_

Rebecca knew there had been weddings in the house on Piikoi Street before. She knew it because there were boxes and boxes of photos of brides and grooms taken in front of the beachfront she felt she had by now memorized every grain of sand upon. Digging through the moldy photo boxes she had seen picture after picture of smiling couples with an assortment of tropical flowers, flushed and beaming out at her from the glossy paper.

A lot of the men had been in uniform, too, just like McGarrett had been at their wedding. The wedding was not, however, at the little white house in ‘Aina Haina.  Instead it had been inside a stuffy whitewashed barracks before a naval magistrate with her parents and some officers from the _U.S.S Arizona_ serving as witnesses. They had spent their wedding night among the cobwebs and water damaged wicker strewn about their new home, purchased at auction by Father only the day before.

The whole affair had been pretty turnkey, she thought ruefully – as though Father had been lying in wait, secretly hoping she would get herself in trouble and afford him the perfect opportunity to simply throw her and some cash at another man and be rid of the daughter he never wanted. She longed for him to yell at her, or beat her, or refuse to see her again, but he’d handled that just like he handled every other business transaction, from leaving the domestics change for the newspaper subscription to closing a land deal. He spoke frugally and directly, and there was no discussion: she would marry McGarrett, she could keep the car they’d brought with them onboard the ship from San Francisco, and he’d find a house. The bare minimum, she thought, to feel as though he’d handled the situation with charity and understanding.

That had been two Saturdays ago. The following Saturday her husband had been back onboard the ship, having received only four days leave to celebrate his own nuptials. Rebecca was somewhat relieved. Although he’d seemed nice enough (he was certainly handsome enough), and didn’t need much convincing to help a young society debutante from California rid herself of the pesky virginity it seemed everyone prized but her, the honeymoon, both literal and figurative, was short. McGarrett had turned out to be a son of a bitch. Brusque, sarcastic, and prone to self-pity, she soon discovered he was that odious type of man who felt that nothing ever went right, and no bad fortune that befell him ever had anything to do with his own choices.

He reminded her of several of the young gentlemen she’d been introduced to in San Francisco upon her coming out the previous season, and they all had one thing in common: they were spoiled, overindulged brats who weren’t expected by their families to do a damned thing for themselves or anybody else. Thankfully, most of the young men she met were upstanding sons who were expected to take over their family businesses; having been groomed for great responsibility, it was apparent in their dispositions, and Rebecca was nothing if not spoiled for choice until Mother’s health failed her yet again (tuberculosis, the doctor said) and it was recommended the family take a journey to Hawai’i; the sea air and tropical breezes thought to have a curative effect.

Neither rich nor well-bred, McGarrett’s whining came as a mystery to her. From what little of his history she’d managed to extract from him, he was the son of a school teacher at some private school for the wealthy, Punahou. She’d actually heard of it before. She’d attended a mixer at Stanford and met several boys from Hawai’i, whose families were mostly in shipping or sugar or pineapples; they were all Punahou alums, and were for the most part very agreeable. What little family he’d known all seemed to have died, and at twenty, he’d been in the Navy for a year and a half.

But damned if he wasn’t handsome. He was tall, inexplicably well built for someone who sat on his ass all day (he was a radio operator on the _Arizona_ ; at home he seemed to do little else but nap), and on the rare occasion he did smile, Rebecca seemed to forget all of his shortcomings and find herself at loss for words, which had never served their purpose well for her anyway. Debutante though she was, she could match her sailor husband curse for curse when it came to foul language. She had no idea exactly where she’d picked it up, but she’d spent time perfecting her craft because she knew it irritated Father. She particularly enjoyed the voyage to Hawai’i, where she’d made a study of some of the crew, being particularly amused with the word “cocksucker”, which she’d found occasion to use to dispatch a particularly forward newspaper reporter soon after her arrival.

That next Saturday she’d also sat on the beach in front of the house, having figured out how to make iced tea (apparently you had to brew the tea, _then_ pour it over ice rather than putting teabags into ice water) and watched as the _S.S Lurline_ departed Honolulu with her parents onboard, bound again for San Francisco. At the wedding Father had informed her they’d be leaving Hawai’i after only two months, as Mother’s health wasn’t improving and it was thought perhaps the dry air of Palm Springs would be a better alternative.

This Saturday morning was yet another in a long, endless stream of gorgeous Saturday mornings that she had spent watching the ocean since she stepped off the _Lurline_ in early April. She’d repeated her success with the iced tea, drank half of it, for despite the sun having risen only a little bit the day was already sweltering, and busied herself with picking up the plumeria blossoms that had fallen onto the yard from the large tree that hid much of the shoreline from the back door. She carried two baskets she’d found in the attic; one for fresh blossoms to take inside, and one for the rotted brown ones to be cast into the ocean. At length she put both baskets down and stopped for a sip of tea as she regarded the back door of the house.

There was a small platform and a set of five steps, one of which was broken, as she’d learned her first night in the house when she descended them in the dark and gone sprawling across the lawn. The next time Stephen was on leave she planned to ask him to see about building a lanai out that back door instead of the stairs, like she’d enjoyed at the Moana Hotel, underneath the sprawling 40 year old banyan tree rumored to have been imported from the Far East.

She set the glass back down and resumed plucking the five-petaled plumeria blossoms from the grass. She had loved them from the moment a lei of them had been placed around her neck when she arrived at Honolulu Harbor. The fragrance was so delicate it managed to fade after a few moments, even surrounded by the floral windfalls, and she stopped every other moment to hold a particularly fresh blossom to her nose to inhale the intoxicating fragrance that smelled almost good enough to eat, like the most luscious cake or most sublime confection she’d ever had the imagination to consider. She knew they couldn’t be eaten, however, for a book she’d read in the ship’s library told her the sticky white sap from the stems of the flowers was mildly poisonous.

If not for collecting the flowers she would have gone mad. Even the poor company McGarrett provided was better than the still silence that pervaded the house, broken only by the wind and the crash of the surf on the shore. As far as neighbors were concerned there were none of any note; the house was surrounded by pig and poultry farms, and the large Hind-Clarke Dairy, the traffic at which never failed to wake Rebecca earlier than she was accustomed each morning.

The traffic she did not mind was Mr. Zhou with his fruit truck, who bleated his horn in front of her house three times a week. This morning it was almost noon by the time he arrived, and Rebecca found herself smiling as she hurried around the house and through the front yard without even having set her plumeria baskets back down.

The fruit truck, which in reality carried everything from loaves of bread to cigarettes to dish soap in addition to boxes upon boxes of fruit both local and imported, was a life saver for Rebecca; although she’d been left with the car, she’d never learned how to drive it. McGarrett had grown up in the city, and having been without means, had rarely ever ridden so much as a streetcar. He’d tried to insist that Rebecca sell the car, but she’d reasoned it would be necessary should she have an emergency and need to see the doctor. In the short time she’d been in Hawai’i she’d quickly fallen in love with local delights such as papaya and passionfruit, even chewy breadfruit and _poi_ , the steamed mashed taro root which was the staple starch in the islands, all of which could be had for a few pennies from Mr. Zhou’s truck. When she was in the mood for a taste of home he always seemed to have tomatoes, apples, and oranges shipped weekly from the Bay Area.

In the few times she’d bought fruit from him, she’d already come to consider the cheerful Mr. Zhou, with his diminutive stature and several teeth missing when he grinned, a friend. Though he had no other custom in the immediate neighborhood, he seemed to take an instant liking to her, and often tarried to share some coffee from the thermos he carried with him in the cab of the truck.

“Aloha Mr. Zhou!” She called as she approached the truck with her baskets. She could see he’d already poured her a cup of coffee which he’d set on the rear fender next to the loaves of bread stacked on the shelves, while he sipped his own mug, having taken off his cap to reveal his crown of thinning white hair as he leaned up against the truck with one foot resting on the rear tire, the other out in front of him.

Mr. Zhou held up a hand in welcome. “Aloha Kahakiaka Mrs. McGarrett!” he called loudly. Despite being such a slight man, his boisterous voice carried, as did his frequent belly laugh.

“What you got dea eh? Plumeria yeah?” he said in his lilting Canton accented Pidgin.

She nodded as he took another sip of his coffee. “Little bastards all over the grass every morning.”

He examined the flowers for a moment before plucking one from the basket of fresh and put his coffee down on the fender, beckoning to her to lean in closer. He tucked it over her left ear, pushing back a few strands of her brown hair that had flown out of place.

“Dis the way married _wahine_ wear _pua_ in Hawai’i.” he counseled. “Same side as wedding ring. Come, drink coffee ‘fo it get cold.”

She sipped the coffee and examined his fruits and vegetables, wishing she’d remembered to make a list of what she needed. At length she picked out some potatoes, some papaya, a particularly lush looking pineapple, a can of spam, a can of green beans, another of peas, and a loaf of bread. Mr. Zhou hadn’t been much for conversation; she noticed he’d spent several minutes examining her basket of plumeria while she’d been picking out fruit, a hand on each knee as he squatted down closer to look at the basket, periodically pinching one or two of the blossoms and digging to see how deep the basket was.

“Do you have fish?” she asked.

He looked up from the basket of plumeria for a moment. “No can keep on truck.  No have cooler. Can get for you if you like, but mo bettah you pick out which _kine_ you like at the market. Is different every day. You pretty _wahine_ they give you good deal – not me!” He laughed at his own joke. “You got car – go to town! Mo bettah go Chinatown and see my cousin Mr. Ong.”

She laughed at his earnestness. “If I could figure out how to drive the goddamned thing!” she said. “How much do I owe you?”

He looked at her thoughtfully for a moment. “Trade you for plumeria. Whole basket.” He said.

“Are you on the level?” She eyed him skeptically. “All this for a basket of flowers?”

“Shit yeah!” He laughed. “ _Haole_ tourist pay 75 cents for fresh plumeria lei in Waikiki – you got enough pua here for at least two. I give you credit for next time, and I teach you drive for plumeria.”

“Deal.” She said, almost losing grip of the can of spam to shake his hand before piling her cans and fruit and the loaf of bread on top of the basket of dead blossoms she’d planned to throw away anyway.  Mr. Zhou held out an empty bread bag and she filled it with the fresh plumeria.

“You make good business that tree keep dropping flower.” He told her as he drained his coffee cup.

“I’ll see you Monday then?”

He grunted as he pulled down one of the canvas sides of the truck to cover the produce and latched it into place. “Monday.” He said, before going to work on the next canvas flap. “Same time.”

Satisfied that all the flaps had been secured, Mr. Zhou wiggled his outstretched thumb and pinkie at Rebecca in what had become a familiar gesture to her in her few months on O’ahu, which she returned in kind before collecting her baskets – one now empty – and started up the short footpath back to the house. She was excited for Monday, and the opportunity to get out in the car and explore some more of the island, and meet some new people.

Yes, Monday. Monday would be the day she’d break the silence and be among real people again.

***

After their delayed breakfast, Steve found Danny in the back yard underneath the large plumeria tree, staring ponderously at the large green plumed leaves bursting out from the spindly gray branches, seeming to count the clusters of yellow throated white flowers.

“Do you think we have enough flowers to make leis for my parents?”

“The plural of lei is lei, Danny.”

Danny through up a hand in mock frustration. “Do we have enough, Commander Grammar, or what?”

“For two single strands we probably have enough, but we’ve got to get going, it’s almost noon. We’ll probably have just enough time to stop in Chinatown at one of the lei stands.”

Danny made a face.

“Why are you just thinking of this now?” Steve asked, slipping his arms around Danny’s waist from behind and nuzzling the soft skin just behind his left ear.

“I dunno.” Danny said softly, wrapping his own arms around Steve and leaning back into his arms. I’d like to say we made something for them.”

“When Grace comes over tonight we can string some for your sisters when they come in tomorrow, and your Mom and Dad can help.”

Danny breathed in deeply. “Mom would like that. Dad would probably take more interest in the baseball game.”

“We’ll figure it out baby.” Steve squeezed him in his arms. “But for now we’ve gotta go or they’ll be waiting on the curb.”

They walked back into the house holding hands. “How long has that tree been there, do you know?” Danny asked.

Steve thought for a moment as they took the stairs up to the lanai. “I’m not sure, but I think it was here when we bought the house. It was Grandma’s favorite place on the island, and we scattered her ashes beneath it when she died.”

“And how long was she married to your Grandpa before he died?” Danny asked.

“’Too long’ she always said, whenever I asked.” Steve said. “I was never sure whether she was joking or not. I don’t think it was that long. Not even a year.”

The twinkle in Danny’s eye had returned. “And how long have we been together, Steven?”

Steve smiled. “Not long enough.” 


	2. June 10: Kona

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danny's parents arrive from New Jersey, and Danny's mother explains her aversion to seafood, which dates back to an incident that occurred when she was a child in Italy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kona is the name of a town on the Big Island. It's also the name of a leeward or southerly wind.

Sunday morning dawned a brilliant parade of deep purple to teal to pink to orange to yellow, and Steve found himself particularly lost in his swimming.  Normally careful not to swim too far that he would be too exhausted to swim home (a few times he’d swum ashore and walked back for safety after hitting a wall), he startled himself when he recognized the sea wall at the Eastern end of the Kahala Hotel. It was somewhat farther than he  normally swam on any normal morning, and figured it might be time to head back into the sunrise toward the house, lest Danny begin to worry. He did his best to do his swimming before Danny got out of bed most mornings after he’d drunkenly confessed to him one date night at Hula’s that he worried whenever he couldn’t see Steve from the beach. He’d thought about it while swimming several mornings after, and whenever he noticed Danny was waiting for him by the time he could tell tension had taken up residence between his blue eyes – tension that took some time to fade. Sometime later he’d promised himself he’d do his best to get back before Danny was up.

He pushed off the sea wall and cursed himself inwardly, knowing he wouldn’t be able to swim the nearly two miles back to the house before Danny awoke and found him gone; he knew he’d be sitting on the lanai waiting for him with several cups of coffee stirring his adrenaline and doing nothing to combat his worry. He kicked harder to pick up the pace for a few yards, and to disentangle a stubborn bit of seaweed that seemed to have wrapped itself around his ankle.

The sea bottom was still visible, even as far out as he swam, past the breakwater where the swells were gentle and made for easier swimming. Rolling pasture of sand gave way to long fingers of overgrown reef, back into sand, and another peninsula of moss-colored reef covered with coral living and dead, seaweed, populated by reef fish; bright orange-red ‘Ala’ihi, spiny Nahu Pineo, and colorful Kika Kapu. He felt the tiny bit of Hawaiian blood that coursed through him from his Mother must have been the source of his deep seeded love of the sea – as for most Polynesians the sea is the very source of life and livelihood – the ocean is the body of the god Kanaloa, who is held in esteem surpassed only by Kane, the sky.

In thinking of the heavens, he noticed during a breath (which turned out to be a bigger gasp than his normal, measured breathing during his disciplined stroke, which he knew meant he was getting tired) he caught a glimpse of the heavens and took notice of some very dark clouds setting in between Koko Head crater and Haunama Bay, and headed quickly toward him. He gasped another deep breath and picked up his stroke, although each one felt less productive than the last, and the tinge of green adrenaline pulsing through his muscles seemed to burn quickly off into fatigue before he felt any benefit.

He rounded the mushroom shaped peninsula to the immediate West of the house and popped his head out of the water again for a glimpse of the yard ahead of him. Despite the full glow of the sunrise beaming directly at his face, he could just make out the brightened features of the house, trees, and shoreline illuminated in the gold beams of light. After a few seconds the sun was hidden by the oncoming storm cloud, casting shadow upon the shore and he could just make out Danny’s figure down at the shore’s edge in a white t-shirt and black basketball shorts, arms crossed, scanning the horizon, his blond hair blowing from where he’d meticulously combed it as the wind picked up across the shoreline.

Steve’s strokes continued to lose power, seemed to move less water, and he took more breaths, having swum farther than normal that morning, but he picked up his flutter kick and made for the shore, depending on the waves to carry him closer once he’d swum back past the breakwater into the surf. As he’d done so many mornings since his return to Hawai’i his feet found sand and his weight shifted once again to firm ground that this morning didn’t seem quite as firm as when he’d left it. His attempt to stand was ill-timed with an incoming wave, and he sank back toward the sea, balancing himself with a backward step, and for the first time he realized he was breathing quite heavily. Danny had noticed, and was in the water before Steve could make another attempt to stand up.

He felt foolish as Danny’s arm slid around him, just under his shoulders, and embarrassed that Danny was now in the water with him, still clad in his shorts and shirt, his face a mask of tense concern he normally reserved for Grace.

“I got a little lost.” Steve nearly grunted, trying to laugh it off, but it came out as a heave instead.

“Lost? Babe, you’re swimming along shoreline, there’s only two directions.”

Steve tapped his forehead. “Up here.”

Danny scanned his face for a moment, and Steve could see the panic. It irritated him, because Danny had been able to see him in the water as soon as he rounded the peninsula, and had a good fifteen minutes to simmer down before Steve got to shore, but he was still clearly tightly wound and upset. Not yelling upset, but quiet upset – which was much worse.

“I was getting worried.” Danny said with a double eyebrow raise.

“I’m sorry, Danno.” Steve grunted again.

Danny, ever the pragmatist, shrugged it off. “Can you stand up now?”

“Yeah, Danno, I’m fine. Just lost track of time. Wave caught me the wrong way – bad timing – happens to everybody.”

He felt Danny stifle a sigh; he knew Danny could tell he was being fed a load of shit, but he remained silent as he braced himself in the sand while Steve used him for support to lift his body out of the water.  He certainly felt heavier than normal walking out of the surf before collapsing into one of the Adirondack chairs and Danny handed him his favored navy blue towel.

He looked up at Danny, who was standing over him, wet from the neck down, and sensed he had been stifling more than just a sigh. “I’m sorry, Danno.” He said for the second time that morning, “I know you worry.”

Danny’s voice softened as he clapped Steve on the shoulder. “I’ll deal. I’m gonna go shower before Mama and Pop get here. They’re taking us to breakfast at some—I don’t know—some place Mama spotted. Coffee for you on the lanai.” He almost shouted the last sentence over his shoulder on the way to the house. Steve glanced over his shoulder as Danny headed for the house. Even soaking wet his strutting swagger was prominent, and he wondered if he’d ever get over how damned hot that man was.

Steve’s breathing had slowed considerably, and he let out a big sigh. Scaring Danny wasn’t a great way to start off a morning.

***

_Honolulu: June 10, 2012_

“C’mon Gracie! _E hele kakou!_ ” Steve yelled at the group of girls behind the volleyball net. The staccato squeaks of rubber soles against gymnasium floor and the shouts of other parents filled his ears as he noticed Gracie steal a look at him out of the corner of her eye as she remained ready for the serve from the opposing team.

Danny’s mother looked at Steve with a quizzical expression that Steve found all too familiar – a mix of amusement and confusion.

“What is that word?” She asked.

Steve still wasn’t used to her accent. He’d long pictured a brusque, nasally accent even thicker than Danny’s, evoking images of petrochemical refineries, orange-hued reality television stars and pizza joints. He couldn’t quite believe that Danny had never shared that his mother had moved to New Jersey from Italy as a young adult and her speech still reminded Steve of sunny piazzas, sun-drenched limestone coasts, jugs of olive oil and massive wheels of artisan cheese.

“That _cocoa_ word.” She pressed, smiling.

“ _E hele kakou_ is Hawaiian for ‘Let’s go.’” Steve explained.

“Ahh!” She smiled again held a hand up next to her mouth and shouted “ _Andiamo!”_

The intense volley that had taken up on the gym floor between the two teams ended up with a point for Grace’s team, and she flashed a smile at her family in the stands as they stood and cheered.

“Sounds like a lovely language, Mrs. Williams. You’ll have to teach me some before you leave.” Steve smiled, after they sat back down.

“The one language Mr. Polyglot here doesn’t speak.” Danny remarked, his gaze still focused on the game.

“ _Più bello_ , _Daniele_!” She swatted her son on his left shoulder, and leaned forward, conspiratorially, talking across Danny to Steve. “Steven, please, call me Mama.”

“Sure thing, Mama.” Steve smiled.

“ _Daniele_.” Steve mused. “I like that. I’ll have to start using that.”

“Use it later.” Danny muttered. “I am _trying_ to watch my daughter play volleyball here, ok? Can we hash out the pet names another time?”

“ _Our_ daughter, _Daniele_.” Mama corrected. “Good practice. You are getting married again. You must banish ‘I’ from your words.” She flashed a toothy grin and gave him a soft poke to his ribs.

Steve watched him flash back what he knew from experience was a heavily rehearsed, but completely bullshit glare to mask a reluctant smile. Steve poked his ribs from the other side and chuckled as he watched Danny involuntarily jump once again before reaching over to give a punishing squeeze to the hand Steve had poked him with, but Steve kept squeezing and held on to Danny’s hand when he tried to pull it away again. After a brief struggle he managed to keep it and the smile Danny had been stifling for much of the game finally came out and he acquiesced and let Steve hold it, but he sandwiched their hands between their thighs so as to be less conspicuous.

Steve liked Mama, a lot, and there was so much of her in Danny. She had a dry sense of humor and a mocking laugh that Steve knew, like her son, she kept close to the vest and shared only with those she had true affection for. Unlike Danny, however, whom he noticed tended toward sparing benevolence when it came to dealing with people, Mama had a generous, hospitable spirit that Steve had quickly noticed. When Steve and Danny had met their flight in baggage claim at the airport the previous afternoon they happened only upon Danny’s father, who explained his wife would be back as soon as she’d finished helping a Japanese couple find the shuttle bus stop for their tour group.  She was gracious with the wait staff m when they went out later in the evening, insisted upon paying the check, and as Steve looked over her shoulder when she was paying it he noticed she’d left a generous tip. She seemed a happy soul with a relaxed outlook that handily masked her whip-fast wit.

Danny’s father James, by contrast, was quiet and brooding. He shared Danny’s squat stature with slight features haloing a broad barrel chest. He seemed resigned to let his wife do most of the talking though he was faithfully present and clearly actively engaged albeit silent. When he did speak his economy with words was such that Steve began to wonder how between himself and his warm, charming wife they’d managed to raise Danny into the ranting pistol that he was, although the more Steve thought about it, the more he recognized that streak of quiet withdrawal at times from both Danny and Grace.

Grace, for her part, loved her grandparents, and bounded up to them with excitement Steve hadn’t quite seen from her before after the game was over.

“We won, Grandpa! Did you see my spike?” she chattered.

“I did.” James smiled, accepting a hug. “You were magnificent.”

“Yes, _magnifica._ ” Mama parroted. “I think that deserves ice cream, yes?”

Grace smiled. “Can we Danno?”

Danny nodded. “Of course. Anything for my little girl – my volleyball star. What do you think, Steve? Bubbies?”

Steve returned the nod. “Sounds good. And what do you want for dinner, babe? I was thinking Kobe – you know—it’s family and all.”

Danny scratched the back of his neck and blew out a gaspy breath, and Steve knew he was embarrassed about something.

“What, Danno, you love Kobe.”

Danny glanced over at his mother, who was still doting on Grace, and leaned in conspiratorially. “Mama, uh, doesn’t eat seafood.”

“So, she can have steak. It’s a steak house you know, they have a lot of other things.

“I know, I know, I just – Mama has this weird thing where she can’t see seafood – something – I dunno, something happened with seafood to her, when she was little – I dunno. Can we just not go somewhere there’s going to be raw shrimp roasting in front of her eyes?”

Steve felt hurt, and a little surprised that a woman as easygoing as Mama had a quirk like the inability to even see seafood, but he smelled her perfume creeping up behind him and a noticed her hand on both of their shoulders before he could protest further to her son.

“ _Daniele_ still thinks I can’t hear it when he whispers about me, but I know what you are saying.”

Danny began to stammer but she stopped him.

“No, it is fine. It was a long time ago and wounds heal, even if you still have a faint scar to remind you of the pain. If it becomes a problem I will step outside. Now, Steve, what is the Hawaiian you say again?”

“For what, Mama?”

“To say _andiamo_ – let’ go.”

“Oh, _e hele kakou_ , Mama.”  Steve smiled. It felt good to call someone “Mom” again.

“ _E hele kakou._ ” Mama said, flawlessly. “Gracie can ride with us. I’ll drive.”

“Be careful with my car, Mama.” Danny pleaded.

“ _Que_ ‘careful’ _Daniele_? You’ve seen me drive, I love it! I learned to drive Maserati in Napoli, I think I can handle a Camry!” she shouted over her shoulder as they headed for the door.

“It’s a… Camaro.” Danny started, but they were already gone. “You – no laughing.” He pointed at Steve.

Steve stifled a laugh and cuffed his partner on the shoulder. “Come on, buddy, let’s go follow her to make sure she knows where to turn otherwise she’ll end up in Wahiawa.”

“Pain in my ass.” Danny muttered as they started for the door.

Steve wrapped his arm around Danny and tried to stifle a laugh. He couldn’t tell if Danny was talking about him or Mama, and he didn’t care. He was thoroughly enjoying having a family.

***

Steve made sure to keep Mama well plied with maitais and conversation during dinner, especially when he noticed the chef was beginning to cut the tails off the shrimp. Mama was already three drinks in and bubbly to the point where the servers were beginning to eye her. She sat sideways in her chair at the hibachi grill, careful not to look at the cooking surface, but the idea of raw seafood hadn’t left her mind as she shared stories of previous accidental encounters as Danny was growing up.

Danny busied himself peeling the label off his Kona Longboard as he himself tried to ignore the various embarrassing ins and outs of his formative years that his mother was laying out full spread in front of the man he was about to marry.

“And after that day we never went back to Colucci’s.” Mama finished, taking another sip of her drink.

“Ma, that’s enough. We’ve heard enough fish horror stories.” Danny grumbled.

“Ok, ok. _Madonna mia_ , who do you have to be for another drink, eh?” Mama said, putting her hands up and looking around for the waitress.

Steve fumbled for another topic, and knew he’d picked the worst one the moment he let the words out.

“So you’re not bothered by your son marrying me, with your religion and all?”

“What the hell are you doing?” Danny hissed in his ear. Steve was about to protest it was a good time to ask while Grace had excused herself to go to the bathroom, but Mama answered before he got the opportunity.

Mama was nonplussed by Steve’s boldness.

“I’ve lived enough to know what goes on around me in spite of what the church says.” She said. “American Catholics are much too concerned with social legislation and acting like people do not do what people do.” She said mockingly, wildly gesticulating and rolling her eyes. “We are Catholic, yes, but in Italy we live life, and then we go to confession.” She smiled warmly and made a broad sweep of her hand. “But, yes, it used to be very different, especially in my village.”

Steve noticed out of the corner of his eye that Gracie had returned, and he was glad the conversation had softened. He felt Danny relax next to him when he slipped his hand onto his thigh and sat back as Mama began her story.

***

_Positano: June 10, 1962_

Fiorella could tell which way the wind blew by the smell. The West wind bounced lightly along the coast and carried the delicate fragrance of citrus and jasmine. The East wind was crisp and cool, smelling of fresh mountain aquifers and ancient stone. The North wind smelled like the urban melee of Naples: fuel for ships, trains and automobiles, factories, and restaurants. But the wind that blew today came from the South– her favorite – right off the azure waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea and reminded her of the bounty that came into port daily on her father’s fishing boat.

The wind blew over the inky black water of the sea in the predawn darkness, danced around the few remaining fishing boats in the harbor, and drifted through the front door of the row house that Fiorella shared with her parents and three siblings. There were never many fishermen in the village, and they never caught many fish, but when some _Americano_ had written about the village when Fiorella was a toddler, the town was overrun with tourists and the hotels began to spring up along the rocky cliffs that hemmed in the horseshow shaped bay and towed precariously above the rocky little strip of beach. Long abandoned villas were turned into sumptuous inns and forgotten cottages were rented to the rich Americans who would pay anything to soak up the sun on the brilliant coast. The hotels now paid cash, and they paid three times what they used to as soon as the daily catch started to run out before each of the chefs had visited the pier.

Stefano, the oldest at 19, was first to rise, stumbling downstairs in trousers and a sleeveless shirt, sleep still in his eyes as he yawned and ran a hand through his medium length brown hair, showing off a thick patch of matching hair under his arm. He caught Fiorella’s eye, winked, and made his way toward the stove where a kettle of warm water was invariably left overnight. She knew he’d had too much to drink at the rehearsal dinner the night before, but he didn’t seem to complain like Papa always did.

“ _Buongiorno, fiorellina, hai de sogni belle?”_ he asked. Every morning the same – “Good morning, flowerbud, did you have pretty dreams?”

 _“Non riesco a ricordare.”_   She answered. She couldn’t remember if she had dreamed or not. She rarely remembered her dreams, and when she did they never seemed as interesting as the ones he told her about. She’d remember shapes and colors, things like walking along the waterfront, or swimming, or listening to records, and she’d awake suddenly to know they were dreams, even though they felt real.

She watched him intently as he took the kettle off the stove and took it to the adjacent washstand, which held a white-painted metal basin with a matching pitcher, above which was set a small mirror – the only one in the house. He poured a measure of hot water into the pitcher to warm the water Fiorella had filled it with the night before (it was one of her chores) and replaced the kettle. As he splashed water on his face, neck, and underarms, she began to wonder if he would do the same the following morning. By then he would be married to Carla and living in Naples.

“Do you have to leave Positano?” she asked for what felt like the hundredth time since she’d learned of his engagement.

She heard Stefano snort from underneath the hand towel he was using to dry his face.

“No.” He shrugged and wrapped the towel around his neck, holding on to both ends as he smiled at his kid sister. “I could stay here and work for Papa and stink of fish or work for the hotels and stink of _Americanos_ but I want to do better things.  For me and for your new sister-in-law.” He had slipped his shirt over his shoulders and was beginning to button it in front.

“ _Future_ sister-in-law.” Fiorella corrected.

“Yes, _future_ sister-in-law.” Stefano smiled. “ _Future_ for the next twelve hours, and then you love her as much as you love me, eh?” Finished buttoning his shirt, he held his hands out, palms up, as though he were waiting for an embrace. “And you can come and visit me in Naples, and I’ll get a job with the government and buy a Fiat and come steal you away to the city for visits. I’ll teach you to drive.”

“I can’t drive, I’m only twelve.”

“Bah, drive a bicycle, drive a car, is the same thing. I’ll get a Fiat and teach you. Or better yet, a Maserati, eh?” He tousled her hair and she batted his hand away, still pouting.

“Who’s going to help Papa with the fish?”

“Papa does all right with the fish! He makes good money. And Giacomo can help. He stinks enough already!”

Fiorella dropped the pout in favor of a giggle. Giacomo, her fifteen year old brother, did always smell funny. He would be downstairs late, as he was every morning, stumbling through a perfunctory wash-up and forget places and most times forget to shave, as Stefano seemed to have done this morning.

“You’re not going to shave on your wedding day?” she pointed out.

“ _Non, fiorellina_ , me and Papa and Giacomo and Antonio and Vittorio are going to Signor Morelli for a shave before the wedding.”

“Ay, Vittorio!” Fiorella nearly swooned.

Stefano laughed out loud. She knew he was amused by her girlish crush on his best friend, but he was so _handsome_. Older than Stefano by only about a week, they looked so much alike that even those in neighboring villages had taken to calling them _I Gemelli Positanesi –_ The Positanoan Twins. They could be seen all up and down the coast, Vittorio driving the mint colored scooter his hotelier father had bought for him, with Stefano perched on the back, whistling at girls and trading jazz records with their friends.

“Yes, all the girls love Vittorio.” Stefano winked at her. “You are not alone there.”

“Does he have a girl?” Fiorella asked.

Stefano hesitated for a minute but the twinkle in his eye as he rubbed his chin told Fiorella he was teasing her.

“Mmm, I remember he said something about a girl, but I do not remember too well this early in the morning.”

“What did he say?” Fiorella felt her face getting hot.

“I do not remember!” Stefano protested, still smiling; he knew Fiorello knew he was hiding the truth.

“Tell me!” She pleaded.

“I think one of them has caught his eye, yes – but that is all I can say.” Stefano said, palms up in a gesture of defeat.

Fiorella eyed him suspiciously. Her brother was always teasing her, and he had known for some time she had taken a liking to Vittorio. Of course she was still young but she knew what it was to like one boy better than others.

The rest of the family began to rise. First Mama, then Papa, then Antonio, and finally Giacomo. They breakfasted on bread and sardines and figs; Fiorella was kept busy answering the door. The wine merchant, the milk man, the grocer’s boy, the tailor – all had deliveries for the wedding. The seafood, of course, traditional for a large wedding feast in the area, had all been caught by Papa the day before, and they thought they had all they needed, but when Signor Cinque dropped by with his delivery of clams, plucked from the tidal flats to the south, Mama shook her head.

“This is half of what we need.” She lamented.

Signor Cinque didn’t seem apologetic. “It was not a good day.” He said with a shrug.

Mama was equally hard-nosed with the diminutive, bald middle aged man, who was shorter than she and aware of it, for when she got close to him and began forcefully discussing the price, he meekly left after accepting a fraction of what they had earlier agreed. Mama set about picking through the clams, which she seemed to approve of, but at length she looked up from the kitchen table and caught Fiorella’s eye at the counter where she had been busying herself chopping garlic.

“Take the bucket and spade and dig some more.” She ordered.

Fiorella rolled her eyes before turning around. “Signor Cinque said it was a bad day for clams. How am I supposed to do better, Mama?”

“Signore is lying, _bambina_.” Mama muttered. “He got a better price.”

Fiorella tried to hide her pout. She wanted to stay in the kitchen with Mama and prepare all the food for the wedding reception. The table was already overflowing with eels and squid and mackerel, sardines and mussels and shrimp. What in the world did Mama need more clams for?

Mama read the look on her daughter’s face and her voice softened. “Your aunts and cousins will be here soon and I know you do not like a crowd.” She smiled.

The southern breeze was still blowing across the water and Fiorella breathed deeply as she walked across the rocky beach toward the silt-dressed tidal flat she knew was good for clam digging. It was luckily not far from the house, just across the wide beach that Positano fronted, around a rocky promontory onto a quiet, adjacent cove just down a steep slope from the Via Cristoforo Colombo where the narrow outlet of the cove seemed to force the water further out to see at high tide and the little telltale indentations that indicated the clams were nestled beneath the surface of the sand pockmarked the entire beach at low tide. She an expert at digging clams, knowing it was necessary to shove the long blade of the spade into the sand and extract the razor-shaped _cannolicchi_ before they could burrow deeper into the sand and escape her reach.

She had half-filled the bucket and added seawater to cover the clams by the time she sat upon the large rocks on the opposite side of the cove to take her ease. The sun had risen high into the sky, although it was still midmorning, and half of Positano remained in the shadows, which it would until midday when the sun was high enough to illuminate the entire valley.  Fiorella was glad she had been sent out for clams before it had gotten too hot, and she enjoyed the feel of the warm rock against her back as she stretched out beside her bucket of clams.

She pushed a strand of hair out of her face as she interlocked her fingers across her midsection and closed her eyes, taking in the sounds of the town. From the occasional buzz of a scooter on the roadway above to the deeper hum of an automobile to the guttural rumbling of the trucks that supplied the hotels to the sound of seabirds and motorboats out in the water punctuated by the ever-present slopping of the ankle-high waves that settled against the beach.

After several moments there seemed to be a break in the racket of the seabirds and the vehicle traffic and she heard a sound that was definitely more human. She was definitely old enough to know what went on among these secluded rocks, between the _Americanos_ or the local Italians, stealing away for premarital or extramarital assignations it seemed the entire coastline was forever dotted with underclothing and pairs of naked bodies attempting to consume other bodies in clandestine, frantic tumbles.

As she listened closer, her experience with overhearing these amorous encounters still failing to temper the Catholic blush that spread across her cheeks whenever she overheard one, she noticed something different; the vocal noises were definitely _male_ ; the female counterpart surprisingly silent. Spurred by a sudden curiosity she eyed the bucket of clams, checking it again to make sure it was firmly settled into a basin in the rock where it wouldn’t tumble into the sea, and she began to scale the rock to catch a glimpse of the couple she could hear on the other side.

The top of the rock rounded and was capped with a lopsided protrusion that Fiorella could lean flat against on the top of the rock and still peer around the protrusion while keeping the rest of her body hidden from the view into the sandy beach below, surrounded by rocks on each side but accessible to the shallow water by a narrow pathway. The roadway above curved back in toward the coast and the sheer cliff face was so steep that it would be difficult to see down into the little valley if still seated in a vehicle or on a scooter, and there was not enough room to stop on the narrow road. She was careful to brush away and sand or dirt on the rock before she lay down upon it, knowing Mama would know she had been doing more than just clam digging if she showed up with a dirty dress front.  

Looking down onto the hidden beach, she could see the two figures. The man’s pants were around his ankles and most of his bare ass capped with two ovals of sand from where he’d sat on the beach, thighs, and back visible as his undershirt was pulled up high on his back by a pair of hands belonging to an unseen partner whose only other visible appendage was the twin fronts of their shins flanking either side of the man on top.

As she watched she gritted her teeth in silent agony as she noticed a pebble had wedged itself into the front of her right shoe, where the binding was beginning to come loose.  She curled her big toe and tried to coax it out through the flimsy insole.   Frustrated, she drew in a deep breath and gave the tiny stone a firm kick with her big toe, finally dislodging it, but losing her foot’s grip in the groove beneath her, which was holding her in place.  Fiorella froze and held her breath as she grasped for a better grip on the top of the rock, and felt a cluster of rocks and small pebbles beneath her right elbow gave way and tumbled into the valley with a great racket, but she managed to suck in even more breath when the man on top looked up and she saw it was her brother, Stefano. His mouth dropped as his expression became grave and he slowed his pace for a few seconds, before a smile spread across his lips and he gave his sister a lascivious wink.

She felt faint and realized she’d been holding her breath for some time so she exhaled and sucked in as much of the salty air as she could and was about to let it out and take another when she noticed that her brother’s partner looked familiar, so much so that when he turned his head slightly in response to Stefano’s changed pace she could see that it was Vittorio looking back up at her over his shoulder as he laid his head back against the cushion of his own thick locks of dark hair. Her breath halted as she watched them, mesmerized; they almost appeared if they were struggling, dissatisfied, not quite getting what they wanted. The white globes of Stefano’s sand-covered ass seemed to move independently from the rest of him – a steady rhythm while the rest of him seemed motionless, his hands braced against the rocks, one of Vittorio’s hands wrapped around each of his forearms.

At length they both seemed to have finished, and Fiorella watched, fascinated as her brother kissed Vittorio, several times, softly and quickly, before hopping back up onto his feet, pulling up his undergarments and trousers, stuffing his undershirt back into the trousers and shrugging his suspenders back over his shoulders and picking up his shirt from the rocks next to them.

“ _Vieni, sorella, voglio parlare con te un momento.”_ He called sternly up at her.

“ _Si, Stefano.”_  She called back before hoisting herself up on to her feet and beginning to navigate down the narrow path between the large rock and the sandy beach head.

 His stern demeanor worried her, but when she got down to where he was standing with Vittorio, who had pulled up his trousers but had not yet buckled his belt or put his shirt back on and was smoking a cigarette where he still laid on the beach, Stefano pulled her into a long embrace.

“You know I love you, little sister, and that will never change, eh?” He mumbled into her ear.

“Yes.” She said hesitantly.

He broke the embrace and held her by the shoulders. “You know what you saw? Me and Vittorio?”

She nodded.

“You treat Vittorio like a girl.” She murmured.

Stefano looked mildly surprised. He seemed to search for the right words for a moment, and started to speak, brow furrowed. After a second his expression relaxed, and he looked down at Vittorio, who had sat up and begun to put on his things. He smiled at Fiorella and shrugged.

“It’s just love, little sister. I’m in love with Vittorio.”

“But Stefano, you are getting married to Carla this evening! You can’t be in love with someone else if you get married?”

Stefano looked like he was about to give another shrug, but he drew in a long breath and let it out as he broke her gaze and his shoulders dropped.

“I think Mama must be expecting you back soon.” He said putting an arm around her shoulders and walking her back toward the path.

“Don’t try to shuffle me away!” She stopped, stamping her foot. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to marry Carla.” He was beginning to lose his patience. “Don’t tell Mama and Papa you saw us like this, ok?”

“Why?” She asked.

She heard Vittorio snort behind them as he rose to his feet.

“Fiorella, I’m begging you, please go. I will see you at home when Signor Morelli has finished. Yes? Run along, Mama will begin to worry.”

She began to object again, but stopped. She knew when Stefano had said what he had to say. She looked back at her brother and his friend as she started back up the path. Stefano had bent over and offered Vittorio his hand to help him up from the sand and Fiorella saw a flash come over his face; one that she had never seen before, not even with Carla, but she felt immediately it was a look she should have seen him give to Carla. Instead he smiled dumbly as he helped Vittorio to his feet and brush a strand of hair out of his face. Vittorio was clearly upset and Stefano doing his best to comfort him. She caught the corner of Stefano’s eye and he shot her a look that said “Get lost, kid.”

She smirked and started back up the path, brushing off her dress again as she wandered back along the beach toward the house. She wasn’t quite she how to feel about what she’d just learned. Although she didn’t understand what made Stefano want to be in love with Vittorio like he was a girl, she didn’t think there was anything necessarily _wrong_ with it.

But as she walked further down the beach, she began to get angry. She was angry that he’d been keeping a secret from her and the rest of the family, and she was angry that he was getting married when he was in love with somebody else. It was not the Stefano she had grown up with, the Stefano that had always been honest and straightforward and kind, who told her never to tell lies.

“Never tell lies.” She mocked him. She didn’t know how she wasn’t going to tell Mama; she wished she’d never found out. Her jaw clenched as she began to wish she’d never been sent to get out more stupid clams.

“Clams!” she exclaimed to herself. She’d forgotten the clams. She’d left in such a hurry she left the bucket of claims sitting on the rocks where she’d crawled for a better vantage of her brother.

She turned to run back to the rocks when she saw Vittorio behind her, carrying the spade and the bucket.

“Your Mama would be very unhappy if you came back with no clams and that droopy look.” Vittorio tried to smile, but she could see he was still upset.

He handed her the bucket of clams and the spade with measured reluctance, as though he had more to say.

“ _Grazie._ ” She paused for another moment. “So you love my brother too?”

“That doesn’t matter.” Vittorio lamented as he began to walk with her back down the beach toward her house.

“But do you love him too?” She persisted.

He nodded.

“Then why must he marry Carla?”

“What’s he going to do, marry me? Live a confirmed bachelor? Impossible, little bud. Stefano must get married because his life is worthless if he doesn’t.”

She stopped walking and looked up at him. “It’s not fair!” She said. “I thought you were supposed to marry the people you love.”

“We’re different.” Vittorio said. “Cursed, almost.”

“What do you mean?”

“You really don’t get it, do you kid?” He almost spat. “The church says it’s a sin, everybody thinks it makes you less of a man, a sissy, a pervert, immoral. That’s why you can’t tell anybody.”

“Because you’re in love?” Fiorella was almost shouting herself.

Vittorio recoiled and gave her a look that told her she’d been too loud.

“Shh! Yes, because we’re in love. They don’t understand it, so they think it’s wrong.”

“I don’t understand it.” She pointed out.

“Do you think it’s wrong?” He asked.

She thought for a moment. “I love Stefano.” She said. “Mama and Papa love Stefano. Even smelly Giacomo and Antonio love Stefano.”

“And?” Vittorio asked after her pause became uncomfortable.

“I can’t imagine being told loving Stefano is wrong. Ever.” She said, defiantly.

“Love is easy at your age.” Vittorio mused.

Fiorella rolled her eyes. “Shouldn’t it always be easy?”

Vittorio chuckled.

“I’d better get home.” She said. “The wedding.”

“Yes, the wedding. Your Mama has gone to a lot of trouble.” He said, with a sudden tinge of sadness having taking up residence in his brown eyes. “You take care of your brother, eh?”

He patted her on the head before she could answer and spun on his heel, taking a few steps up the beach and then breaking into a jog toward the roadway.

***

Fiorella was still in a huff when she got back to the house. Her mother didn’t notice her come in; she was busy cutting the heads of several large mackerels with a large meat cleaver. She wasn’t being very neat, and with such little space on the kitchen table she seemed not to notice when one of the severed fish heads dropped onto the floor.

“Leave it.” She stopped Fiorella before she could put the bucket down and grab the fish head off the floor.  She hadn’t even looked up from her mackerel. “It’ll keep the cat off the table.”

Fiorella knew that Notte, the small black tomcat that had taken up on their back stoop some years earlier had a tendency of hopping up on the table whenever Mama dared to leave fresh fish unattended for even a moment, but he was nowhere to be seen at present. 

“Boil those clams and chop them up for the soup.” Mama ordered. “You were gone a long time. You don’t dig fast enough.”

Fiorella ignored the criticism. The morning’s events had got her riled up, and she intended to get to the bottom of the dilemma she thought faced her brother.

“Does Stefano love Carla?” She asked, more forcefully than she meant to let on.

Mama still didn’t look up as she began to clean the headless fish.

“Of course he does. They are getting married.”

“Did he ask her? Why her?”

“Does it matter? They both agree and they’re going to get married. She’s a good woman, and they will have beautiful babies, and her Father has promised him a good job that will provide for them well.”

Fiorella had finished adding the clams from her bucket to the pot of water she had set on the stove and turned around to fetch the package from Signor Cinque.  She was frustrated that Mama’s was making too much matter-of-fact sense, and it wasn’t helping her confusion at all. She knew she wasn’t supposed to tell, but she was dying to know what was going on.

She tried a bolder tack.

“It is a sin to lie in church, in front of a priest, right?” she asked.

“It’s a sin to lie anywhere.” Mama said. “You should always tell the truth.”

“So if you get married and you love someone else, is it a lie to get married in a church?”

Mama made a face as she struggled to pull a bone out of one of the fish.  She let out an involuntary grunt and slammed the fish back down on the table, cursing under her breath at it.

“Yes. Yes it would be!” She shouted at the fish before throwing her hands up in defeat. She wiped them on her apron and almost startled her daughter when she popped her head up and began to eye her suspiciously.

“Where did you go digging for clams, exactly?”

“The beach.”

“Yes, I know, the beach. But where on the beach?”

“In the cove, beneath the Via Cristoforo Colombo. Why?” Fiorella asked.

“You didn’t see Stefano, did you?”

She nodded at her Mother in response.

Mama raised her eyebrow. “And Vittorio?”

She nodded again and began to blush.

Mama stared at her for almost a full minute, and she knew she could tell she was blushing. She didn’t know why she felt like she was in trouble, but she felt tears well up in her eyes.

“And you saw them.” Mama said blackly. It wasn’t a question.

Fiorella nodded again. Mama crossed herself and grabbed her daughter by the wrist.

“You listen to me,” She said slowly, “You are to tell nobody what you saw. _Nobody_. Not Papa, not Giacomo, not Antonio, nobody. Not even in confession do you say anything.”

“But what-“

Mama cut her off again. “I’m not done. And me. You never mention it again to anybody. My son is getting married, and after today this will all be over.”

“But why?” Fiorella cut in. “Why is everybody so scared?”

Mama was clearly exasperated. “There are so many things you do not understand about this world, Fiorella. There are bad people who do bad things, things that are unnatural and harmful.”

“So Stefano is a bad person?”

“Yes.” Mama said. “He’s bad for letting Vittorio talk him into doing things he knows are wrong. Bad for letting himself be cursed.”

She paused for a moment and then brought her clenched hand down hard on the kitchen table, knocking off another fish head, together with the meat cleaver, which clattered to the floor. Mama cursed under her breath.

“He told me he could stop.” She muttered to herself.

“But why not…” Fiorella started.

“Stop it Fiorella!” Mama cut her off again. “It is not up for discussion. When you are a Mama someday and you have a son who disappoints you, you will know this feeling. And you will know you have to make them right.”

Fiorella was about to try and finish her question but Mama let out an involuntary sob and Fiorella noticed for the first time she’d been crying.

“He was such a perfect baby.” Mama said, dabbing at her eyes with her apron. “So beautiful. I don’t know what I did that he turned out like this. When he turned into garbage. Oh I could just murder that Vittorio.”

The last she said through gritted teeth, which made Fiorella uncomfortable. She rarely saw Mama cry, and she’d never had her cry _to_ her. And she didn’t like the idea of Mama murdering Vittorio.

“It’s… it’s going to be all right, Mama.” She gave her a hug, but she couldn’t help feeling horrible. She couldn’t understand why Mama was so upset, why she was calling her son _garbage_. This whole thing was getting out of hand.

Out of the corner of her eye she noticed Notte creep in from the back step and begin sniffing near the fish heads lying on the floor. He looked up and noticed the two of them and held an uncertain stare for a few seconds before sticking out his little pink tongue and beginning to lick the back of one of the fish heads.

Mama pulled away from her after a few minutes, seeming to have calmed down. She sniffled and dabbed at her face with the corner of her apron before seeming to remember that it was mostly covered with fish guts. She took a few deep breaths and went over to the mirror to pour some water, which she splashed on her face and dried with the towel hanging on the wall.

“ _Andiamo_.” Mama said. “You have clams to finish, and then you can get dressed for the wedding and I’ll fix your hair.

***

The Church of Santa Maria Assunta in Positano was just steps from the house. The three story white stone façade of the building faced West, and looked to Fiorella like a giant white movie screen reflected in the setting sun. She knew the wedding party was expected to number over a hundred, with the local guests and family, and the visitors from Napoli. Her immediate family had at the door of the church and were greeting townspeople as they streamed into the small square from all over town.

Fiorella was distracted, waiting for Vittorio to arrive. He hadn’t returned with the rest of the men from Signore Morelli’s barber shop after they had all gotten their shaves. Stefano told her he’d promised to meet them all at the church, but he hadn’t shown up yet. She busied herself studying the shadows of the arriving guests shrink against the church wall as they got closer.

“Pay attention, little bud.” Stefano whispered down to her. “Our guests.”

She turned around and greeted a rather stout woman whose name she could not remember, but recognized from one of the florist shops across the street from one of the larger hotels. She felt silly, acting as host to people she only knew fleetingly, but a wedding was a big occasion for everybody. The townspeople seemed to revel in any excuse for a community gathering, because so many of them had only just moved to Positano after the influx of tourist traffic. Fiorella could think of only a handful of other families like hers that had been living there before the “boom”. Many of them were property owners of independent means who wiled their time on terraces sipping orangecello; a few were working people like Papa who supported the small number of residents with necessities – like fish.

The town had once been a much larger fishing village, but times had been hard for much of the previous century, and Mama had told her some had emigrated to America, but most of them had gone to Australia during the 1850s. The idea of America appealed to her. The tourists seemed so glamorous to her, the way they smiled at everybody and shook hands, how their wives looked so movie star perfect with their flawless hair and diamonds and filtered cigarettes.  She didn’t understand much English but she had learned the word: “cheap”. The sunburned wives fiddling about with unfamiliar lira always seemed to find everything they were buying so “cheap” all the time.

Even in Signore Valentino’s shop, they thought everything was “cheap”. He sold leather goods from an air conditioned storefront and he would let Fiorella linger on hot summer days if there were not too many tourists around. She would admire the different types of leather, some buffed, some shiny patent leather, some exotic snakeskin or alligator. And they all smelled wonderful, like fresh money. They were all far more expensive than she could ever dream of affording, and the _Americanos_ came in and left with large shopping bags of them by the dozen.

In school they said it was the war that made Italy’s money so worthless, even though it was two decades hence, and it would take a long time to recover, and might even never catch up with America. Another reason to go, she thought. Americans all seemed so rich and happy, undoubtedly because they had machines to do all their work for them – machines to wash their clothes and clean their houses and even for exercise. Vittorio had once taken her to his father’s hotel and showed her the giant machines where all the linens were washed; she hadn’t believed him when he told her that the _Americanos_ all had such a machine in their own homes – a much smaller version, of course.

As she thought of Vittorio she began to worry. The last of the guests had arrived and Carla would be coming up the steps to the small square in her wedding gown any moment - it was time for Stefano to go into the church, but he was still waiting for his best man. True to character, he did not appear to be at all bothered. He caught the worry in her eyes and he gave a shrug and fished in his pocket and pulled out a lemon flavored hard candy.

“From the barbershop.” He said, handing it to her. “I saved one for my favorite sister.”

“I’m your only sister!” She giggled. He always called her his favorite sister, and she always had the same response for him. The candy was a little stuck to the wrapper on the outside, having gotten warm in his pocket, but she didn’t care; she was glad that he was still thinking of her.

He also fished out a carton of cigarettes. “Have time for one last smoke too, eh?” he said with another shrug. He took a long drag on the cigarette before he saw the maroon chauffeur’s cap ascending the distant stairs followed by the chauffeur himself, who caught his eye and signaled that they had arrived. Stefano signaled back with an open hand for five more minutes.

“We’ll give him five more minutes, and if not, Antonio can witness for me. Go inside and let them know she’s here.” He took another drag on the cigarette.

Fiorella nodded as she sucked the hard candy and clacked it against her teeth as she set off into the church. She’d taken a few steps before he called after her.

She turned around and saw only his dark figure in the setting sun, and thought he looked otherworldly as the terminal rays shone around his outline, almost angelic. “If I don’t get a chance to tell you later – I think you look like a very beautiful young woman today, Fiorella.” He said.

“ _Grazie, Stefano._ ” She called through the lemon candy.

She took two more steps into the church when she heard a guttural cry followed at once by a loud crack and a flutter that sounded like a flock of birds taking flight. All three distinct, lightning-fast, horrible sounds took her breath from her, and she whipped around on her heel to see that the shadow of her brother had disappeared and she was staring out into the empty square.

She ran back toward the front of the church to find twin figures lying on the cobblestones, one on top of the other, like she had seen her brother and Vittorio earlier that morning. She looked closer to see it was her brother and Vittorio again, in opposite positions than they had been before – Vittorio on top, Stefano on the bottom, although he would give her no wink this time. His lifeless eyes stared back at her; the only movement from either of the boys was the wind blowing through their hair, the smoke curling from Stefano’s still-lit cigarette, still clenched between his fingers, and the pool of blood, viscous like a freshly broken egg yolk, deep crimson like a beet juice stain, spreading beneath them, pooling in the crevices between the masonry and spreading out in a horrifying, bloody patchwork from the church steps into the square.

Numb, she tried to scream but nothing came out. She stood prostrate in front of them staring down at her brother’s handsome face, trying to find her voice. She tried again to scream and again she could manage nothing. She could feel the wind pick up against her face, blowing her hair out of it, affording a clear view of the flock of birds that had taken flight when Vittorio fell the square from the church roof. They rose upwards over the valley, a single, thin black line, carried away by the South wind—her favorite—and the smell of the sea.

***

“What’s wrong with Grandma?” Grace asked Steve between sips of virgin Pina Colada.

“I think she’s sad, Gracie.” Steve tried to explain. “It sounds like she was telling a sad story.”

Steve hadn’t heard the end of it. Mama had begun sobbing halfway through and became almost unintelligible when Steve had suggested to Grace that they step out to the bar to see if the bartender had any of those little plastic monkeys that they put on top of the kid’s drinks. Not only had her drink arrived with two of the little plastic monkeys with long curly tails, one red and one green, but there was also a tiny plastic mermaid with her arms stretched over the side of the glass as though the frosty coconut beverage were a warm, inviting Jacuzzi tub.

Danny appeared in the doorway of the bar a moment later looking utterly exhausted, with both of his parents in tow. Mama appeared as though she had managed to compose herself pretty well , although Steve felt her cheeks were still moist as she kissed him goodnight on his own cheek.

“I’m so sorry to have ruined your evening, Steve.”  She said. “These occasions are not the time for tears.” She smiled.

He smiled back at her, not quite knowing what to say, and not having to as Danny’s Dad smoothly guided her toward the door with his hand against the small of her back, just as Steve was now used to Danno doing with him. However as they started toward the door with Grace he felt Danny’s arm slip completely around his waist, seeming almost for support.

He was silent in the car on the way home, except for a comment about Barry Manilow popping up on Steve’s playlist, and direction to take the freeway instead of driving through Kahala to get back to the house. Grace seemed to sense the tension, for she immediately tore off to her room when they got back to the house, quickly kissing them both goodnight, saying she was very tired and didn’t need to be tucked in.

“I might come in and check on you anyway.” Danny said with a weak smile.

“Either way, Danno.” She shrugged and slipped upstairs.

Steve busied himself double checking the locks on the ground floor before heading upstairs, as was his habit, and double checked the pipe hookups beneath the kitchen sink that they’d been having some trouble with. Satisfied that everything was ship shape, he ascended the stairs to find Danno shirtless and unzipping his pants in their bedroom.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he finally asked.

“Let me think for a minute, Steve.” Danny said flatly.

Steve flushed for a brief moment at the rejection, ducked into the bathroom to brush his teeth and returned to find Danny sitting up in bed waiting for him. He undid his belt and let his pants fall to the floor, breaking with habit by leaving them where they fell. He stripped of his t-shirt and expertly hit the clothes hamper with a single shot, not even touching the rim. He felt awkward as he approached the bed and slipped under the covers, not knowing if Danny wanted to be touched either, but they settled in normally and Danny’s head found its usual place against Steve’s collarbone and Steve smoothed back his hair.

“She never told me any of that.” Danny said, still flat.

“Of what, that she has a gay brother?” Steve asked.

“ _Had_ a gay brother.” Danny recounted the rest of the story to Steve.

“Wow.” Steve said.

“Yeah, wow.” Danny repeated.

“But that doesn’t explain why she doesn’t like seafood?” Steve asked.

“Oh.” Danny said. “Well apparently her Dad was so stricken that he flew into a rage and threw all of Stefano’s things, and all the food that they’d made for the wedding into the street and along the beach. Rotting eels and clams and mackerel and squid all over the street and on the beach and in the harbor. Apparently it smelled up the entire town for a month until the next big rain.”

“I’m sorry if I opened up an old wound,” Steve started.

“No, Steve, it’s fine.” Danny said. “I wish she wouldn’t have drunk so much, but after hearing that whole story, you know, it’s not difficult to understand why she felt the need to get shitfaced with her granddaughter sitting at the same table.”

It was one of those times where Steve couldn’t tell if Danny was complaining or merely stating fact.

“I guess it’s one of those, eh, _life events_ , as they used to say in sensitivity training.” Danny mused.

“How so?”

“You know, something about finding out your parents aren’t invincible superheroes.” Danny said. “Finding out they’re just as much of a mess as you are.”

“Are you a mess?” Steve joked.

“Hey, not as a big a mess as you there, you big goof.” Danny softened. The warmth was back. Steve chuckled and hugged him closer.

They laid still for some time and Steve was certain Danny had fallen asleep but he asked another question.

“Do you know what she said to me after she had finished telling me the story and calmed down?”

Steve murmured a negative. Danny knew damn well he hadn’t shared anything.

“She said she was glad I found my own Stefano, in my own time. She said it couldn’t have worked for them in their time, but that she was glad to live long enough to see that it could work in ours.”

“Conversion therapy rapists, aside, right?” Steve knew that joke was out on a limb and he began to regret it but Danny chuckled against his chest. Steve kissed his crown and smiled.

“Say goodnight Danno.”

“Don’t call me Danno in bed.” Danny mumbled. Steve could tell he was drifting off.

“Goodnight Danno.” Steve said through a grin.


End file.
